Bags & Bucks

I know it's a mistake even as I do it...boy goats should not get names.  Twenty-Two has facial markings that circle his eyes and, without meaning to, I've started calling him "Bags."  He rarely stands still, so I was lucky to get his closeup.  Goats have such simian noses, and I get a kick out of their smiley lips.  I hope Tree Guy's friend makes up his mind about the boys soon.  Nineteen and Twenty-Two need to find a new home.  It's going to be hard enough to let them go as it is without naming them.

Going outside is getting tricky.  It's not unusual to see one or two deer in the yard at dusk or sometimes in the late afternoon, and they've run for cover if I step out the door.  Lately, an entire herd has been showing up at all times of day, a mix of bucks and does, and they're ready for a showdown.  This would indicate rutting season has begun, and the bucks get single-minded, sex-stupid, and aggressive.  I've never seen such numbers together in all the time I've lived here, and certainly none as bold as this bunch.  Neither Bess nor I would come out well in a confrontation with a set of two-foot antlers.  Consequently, I go around looking out windows before stepping outside, and keep Bessie Anne close to me while I do chores.  It's a little like being held hostage by wildlife.